


As Sunlight Drinketh Dew

by Luthien



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s08e04 The Last of the Starks, F/M, Kissing, Missing Scene, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 19:51:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19324945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthien/pseuds/Luthien
Summary: A missing scene from 8x04, exploring what else might have happened that first night in Brienne's bedchamber.





	As Sunlight Drinketh Dew

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Telanu and Undun for cheerleading and handholding.

_O Love, O fire! Once he drew_  
_With one long kiss my whole soul thro'_  
_My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew._

From 'Fatima'  
Alfred, Lord Tennyson

 

 

The cold wakes Jaime. Or rather, the fact that it's cold _er_ wakes him, because it's never not cold in the freezing fucking North. It's warm under the bed furs, but one of his feet has slipped out from beneath them in his sleep and now it's well on the way to freezing solid, and the tip of his nose feels like an icicle. He looks over at the fire, or what's left of it, and remembers Brienne's comment about always putting more wood on the fire every chance she got. Sighing, he drags the rest of himself out from under the furs and into the cold of the bedchamber.

Brienne's bedchamber.

He looks down at her, and suddenly he doesn't feel quite so cold. They'd still been half tangled together when he fell asleep, but she's rolled away from him in the night, and now she lies curled up on her side, a hand beneath her cheek like a sleeping child. An image of her as a child comes to him then. Innocent, she would have been, and good-hearted, and too-tall and stubborn with it. A small, tender smile curves Jaime's lips—and then a gust of icy air blasts in under the door, and he shivers.

It takes but a moment to add more fuel to the fire, and to stoke it with the iron poker until the flames leap high. The hearth radiates heat and Jaime basks in the blessed warmth for a moment. But of course the fire only warms one side of him. His arse will be in danger of freezing into a block of ice soon if he doesn't get back in bed.

He turns to find Brienne propped up on one elbow, watching him with sleepy eyes. "Why're you over there?" she asks, her eyes falling shut again before she finishes speaking.

"What an excellent question," Jaime replies, and crosses the room in a couple of long strides before diving under the bed furs.

Brienne squeals. She actually squeals like a maiden. He's never heard such a noise from her before.

"Keep those… those _feet_ to yourself!" she says, glaring at him with suddenly wide awake blue eyes.

Jaime assumes a hurt look. "But surely you have a little warmth to spare for the gallant knight who has nobly braved the northern winter to build up the fire for his lady?"

Her expression remains flinty until he utters the last two words, when her face is abruptly suffused with colour, and she looks away. Anywhere but at him, Jaime thinks.

He cups his palm against the side of her face, and she leans into it, but she still won't look up. He pushes her chin up with the heel of his hand, gently, oh, so gently, until she has no choice but to look him in the eyes.

"You _are_ my lady, aren't you?" he asks in quite another voice.

Brienne swallows hard. "I'm no lady. I'm a knight. You knighted me, remember?"

"How could I forget?" There's no mockery or funning in his voice now. He owes her that.

"I'll never forget," she says, and it's all there in her eyes for him to see, everything she feels about that night. About _him_.

Perhaps it should scare him, the depth of emotion that he sees there. Instead, all he can think is, _At last!_ and look back at her with what he hopes is equal honesty.

He wishes he still had two hands so he could cup her face between them, but he's learned to do with just the one for most things. And the one is more than enough to keep her there without her hiding from him again, spooked and skittish, until he can bridge the gap between them and kiss her.

It's a soft, slow kiss, the polar opposite of their first. Then, the desperation and yearning had bubbled up inside him until it had overflowed, and he'd lunged at her and kissed her, stealing the words she'd been about to speak right out of her mouth. It had been as much battle as kiss, with Brienne giving as good as she got until at last he'd toppled backwards onto the bed and taken her down with him.

Now they've taken the edge off their lust, and slept through some of the night, they have the time and patience to _savour_ every kiss, every touch, every tiny hitch of the breath, and that's what Jaime fully intends to do.

He runs his tongue along her bottom lip, coaxing her mouth open just a little more.

Brienne pulls back, right back, shrugging off his hand and retreating to the far side of the bed. Jaime sits there, wondering what just happened.

So, he asks: "What just happened?" It seems the easiest way to get to the bottom of it.

"You kissed me," Brienne says. She's sitting with her knees up in front of her, arms thrown protectively around them, all hunched up. Her expression is unhappy.

"Do you perhaps not like kissing me?" Jaime asks, uncertain. She'd seemed to like it before, he'd thought, but it is never wise to make assumptions when it comes to Brienne.

"I didn't say that. I said that you kissed me."

"So you don't like my kissing you?" Jaime hazards. He hadn't thought that was the case, but of course that's another assumption.

"I didn't say that, either."

"Then what are you saying?" Honestly, she's the strangest, stubbornest most perplexing wench he's ever met. But of course that's why he's here now, embroiled in this confusing conversation, because there's no one else like her and he's just a helpless moth to her flame.

But no, that's not it. He had been a moth to Cersei's flame. Brienne would never burn him. And that's truly why there's no one else like her.

"I'm saying," Brienne says, very slowly and distinctly, as if speaking to a simpleton, "that you kissed me. _I_ didn't kiss you."

"And again I ask: do you not like kissing me?" He's trying to keep the frustration out of his voice, but this is nothing like the way he was expecting things to unfold.

"I don't know! I don't know how to kiss!" And there it is, the doubt and terrible sense of inadequacy that he's seen too often in her eyes whenever she's confronted with the need to be womanly in any way.

"You seemed to have no trouble doing it earlier," he points out.

"That was different." Brienne's mouth flattens into a thin, unhappy line.

"Different how?" he asks, his brow creasing in puzzlement. "A kiss is a kiss, isn't it?"

"That… that was more like combat, like a competition. There wasn't time to stop and think about it."

_Ahhh._

"Come back," he says in an ordinary sort of voice, as if they're discussing what they might have for dinner that night. He pats the mattress beside him.

Brienne glowers, but it's not enough to hide her apprehension.

" _Please_ ," he adds. "It's fucking freezing in here still, and I'd like to get back under the covers."

Brienne still doesn't say anything, but she uncurls herself and stretches her legs back under the bed furs. She doesn't make any move to return to his side, though.

"I promise I won't kiss you," he says, and her expression turns to anguish. By all the Seven! Has there ever been such a woman? "Unless you wish it," he adds, as gently as he can.

Eyes still wary, she slides back towards him at last, and he lets out a little sigh of relief as she settles beside him. She's still tense and not meeting his eyes as he pulls the furs right up to his chin, and gathers her against him with his left arm. Her face presses into his neck, and he bends his head a little so that his cheek is lying against her pale blonde hair.

Her arm steals around him under the covers, and Jaime wants to cheer as she finally relaxes against him.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles against his throat.

He reaches up to stroke her hair. "There's nothing to be sorry about. There aren't any rules for how we do this. We just do what feels good."

She looks up at him, that earnestness there in her expression that's always been his undoing. "But I want to please you."

"You _do_ please me," he says, "except when you won't let me touch you and you look less than happy."

Her eyes go huge then, huge and so very blue, and she looks so vulnerable that he wants badly to kiss her, to kiss all of her pain away. But he stops himself and says instead, "No one is born knowing how to kiss as lovers do. It's a skill like any other. Were you as good as you are now with a sword on the day your father's master-at-arms first placed one in your hand?"

"Of course not," she says at once, as he knew she would.

"It's just like that," he says. "A certain amount of natural talent helps, certainly, at least to begin with, but it's not just that."

He can't quite keep the smile out of his eyes, and of course she sees it, because she asks, "Are you talking about yourself?" and she sounds much like she usually does when she takes him to task on what she calls his bullshit.

He affects an innocent look. "Why certainly. I was once widely known as the most skilled… swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. That takes some degree of talent, wouldn't you say?"

She punches him then, in the ribs. Not hard enough to really hurt, but she's a big, strong woman, and her punches mean business.

"Ow!" he says.

"You were talking of kisses," she reminds him, one eyebrow raised in what's probably supposed to be sternness, "not about the great Jaime Lannister."

He feels the sting of that. There is no great Jaime Lannister. Not now. Perhaps there never was. But he makes himself smile, as though he's still enjoying teasing Brienne. He has a point to finish making. And then, maybe, he can get back to the more pleasurable task of exploring her body and learning its ways, learning how best to make her squirm and gasp and cry out in bliss.

"Kisses," he agrees. "As I was saying, just as with swordplay, talent doesn't hurt, but enthusiasm is important, too, and practice most of all."

She closes her eyes and nods very slightly.

"I can be your master-at-arms," he says, huskily now, but no less sincere, "your master-of-kisses, and show you how to make the basic moves. After that, how you use them is up to you."

"A-all right."

He feels her drawing herself up and tensing against him, as if readying herself for battle. He places a single finger under her chin and then slowly strokes down along the sensitive line of her throat until she lets out a shuddering breath.

"The first lesson," he says softly, "is to relax."

"I'll try," she says. She takes a deep breath and lets it out, and he feels a little of the tension leaving her with it. Not all of it, but it's a start.

"Now move up here so we're facing each other properly," he says, and waits until they're lying eye to eye, nose to nose and mouth to mouth across the pillow, so close that he can feel her breath.

"And the second lesson," he says, "is to place your lips on mine."

"I think I know that much," Brienne says, but it's not the withering tone she might have used. Her voice is barely more than a whisper.

"Open your mouth a little," he adds. "Imagine you're about to bite into a ripe peach, _without_ using your teeth."

"All right," Brienne breathes, and then she's lifting her head and, very carefully and slowly, closing the space between them until her lips touch his, as light as a butterfly landing on a leaf. They stay there like that, neither of them moving a muscle for a heartbeat, two, and then Brienne moves her lips on his, gently testing and exploring.

"Like a peach," he says against her lips, and then he's kissing her back, just as gently.

It's not something that either of them is much used to, gentleness, so he's not sure why his breathing deepens so quickly, why his hand strokes up her arm and over her shoulder until he's cupping her face again, his thumb stroking along her temple, again and again and then again, as his heart thunders in his chest. Brienne makes a sound deep in her throat, tears her lips from his, and then almost before he can blink he's on his back and she's straddling him, leaning down to cup his face in her hands and-

"Lesson three: suck!" he manages to get out before her mouth comes down on his.

She _plunders_ his lips, not just exploring now but devouring, as if he's something she's been starving for her whole life, and, oh gods, _sucking_ as their mouths open to each other. Lesson four was going to be tongue but she's worked that out for herself and, and, and…

He has no words left for a while, except for the hazy awareness that he might die before he gets the chance to take another breath, but right now he doesn't care. Her mouth is warm and wet and wonderful and _real_ , so very real, and her sex is pushing against his hard cock as she straddles him, so close to where he longs to be, longs to lose himself in her hot, tight depths. She's not a dream, not this time.

He doesn't die, but instead falls back gasping against the pillow—when had he sat up?—and she collapses beside him, breathing hard.

"So, that's kissing," Brienne says, once she can catch her breath. She _almost_ manages to sound nonchalant about it, and Jaime can't help but smile.

"You're a quick study," he says.

"I had a good teacher," she says, lowering her eyes so that her lashes flutter against her cheeks, like some sort of demure maiden, except really, really not, and is she… could she be… flirting with him?

Intrigued, he rolls onto his side to look more closely at her. "There are other kinds of kisses, you know," he says, letting his gaze roam down to her small, milk white breasts. The room has warmed but there's still enough of a chill in here that her nipples are standing up in little peaks. He reaches out to cup one soft breast, and holds it just long enough for his finger to circle the nipple a few times and feel her chest rise heavily against his hand before he takes it away again and looks back up into her eyes. Two can play at this game. Not that he really has so much more experience at it than she.

"Y-" The word seems to get stuck in Brienne's throat. She swallows, and tries again, "Yes? Are you planning to teach them to me?"

"I thought I might demonstrate, actually," he says, eyes still fixed on hers. "If you'd like me to."

"I've always learned better by being shown rather than having something explained to me," Brienne says, just a trifle breathlessly.

"Then lie back and let me show you," he says.

She complies without arguing, possibly for the first time since he's known her, though she pulls the covers up to her chin. That won't do. He takes the edge of the fur and draws it back again.

"What-" Brienne begins, but Jaime holds a finger to her lips.

"My turn," he says, and before she has time to object further he lowers his head, takes one of those hard, pink nipples in his mouth and sucks.

Brienne makes a strangled noise. "That's not a kiss!" she gasps out, and he feels her fingers gripping his head, trying to pull him off her.

Jaime lifts his head. Her cheeks are pink, and her eyes flash with something that might be anger, or might be something else.

"It is a kiss," Jaime says, watching her carefully. "We're both relaxed—or we were until a moment ago—my lips are open and on you, I'm sucking… Aren't those the lessons we just went though one by one?"

"Yes, but-"

"Then it's a kiss." He says it with a wry little smile, hoping for an answering smile from Brienne, but she frowns instead.

"Why?" she asks.

"Why what?"

"Why do you want to kiss me… there?"

Jaime frowns in turn, trying to work out how to answer that. He opts for the unvarnished truth, since he can't think of a way of couching his answer in smoother terms. "Because it's part of you. Because I'd kiss every inch of you if I could, if you'd let me. Because your skin there is white as milk, and more like cream in the firelight, and the sight of it just makes me want to lick and taste and rub myself against it…" His voice trails off, and then he says again, with a helpless shrug: "Because it's part of you."

Brienne smiles, a huge, incredulous smile that takes over her face and lights it up from within. It reminds him of the way she'd looked in the great hall the night he'd knighted her. Somehow, he's given her the right answer, and by speaking only the simple truth.

"Well then," she says, her lips quivering as the smile keeps threatening to break out again, "you'd better continue with the demonstration."

He smiles back at her, and they look into each other's eyes for a long moment. He probably looks like a lovesick loon, but he doesn't care. It doesn't matter. Tonight, his world is this room, and there's only the two of them in it.

Jaime bends his head again, and this time, when he takes the nipple in his mouth, she doesn't object. He sucks and laves it, makes love to it as he cups and caresses the breast that surrounds it, and is rewarded with a soft gasp from Brienne. Taking that as a signal, he turns his attentions to her other breast until her breath is coming in great shudders that make her whole body tremble.

When her fingers sink into his hair again, he doesn't have to be told, "Enough."

He looks up at her face. Her deep sky blue eyes have gone dark as midnight and yet somehow shine as if filled with a thousand tiny stars, and her face is not just pink but flushed.

"So," he says, and then has to clear his throat before he can continue. "So, that's another sort of kiss."

"Yes," she says, and leans up to run a hand along his cheek and beard. It's a gentle touch, but her eyes are still wild and glittery. "Do you want me to- Would you like-"

He drops a soft, almost chaste kiss on her lips. "No. Later. This is for you."

Brienne smiles, a warm smile that is at odds with the look in her eyes. "That sounds like you have another kiss in mind," she observes.

"Just one more," he says. "You'll need to put a pillow under your hips."

Without another word, Brienne reaches up behind her and takes one of the pillows. She arches her hips and arranges the pillow beneath her in tacit permission for him to continue.

Jaime pulls back the covers and there she is in all her glory, displayed for only him to see, only ever for his eyes. Long, long legs, topped in the centre where they meet with bushy blond hair that he's dying to explore, and then his gaze travels upward, over taut, smooth belly and ribs, marked here and there with fading scars, badges of honour for her bravery and determination to achieve whatever she sets out to do, always. Then there are those lovely white breasts he's just lavished his attention on, and on up past the graceful curve where her shoulder meets her neck, to the face that he never tires of looking at. The face he _will_ never tire of looking at.

His Brienne.

"Are you just going to sit there?" asks his Brienne, and Jaime has to smile at the impatience in her voice, laced with just the tiniest hint of self-consciousness, still.

"No," he says, and puts action to his words, moving over to kneel between her legs, gently pressing them farther open with hand and stump, getting them to bend. She's tense again, a little, at least her legs are.

Jaime leans down and presses a kiss to her inner thigh, and is rewarded with a tiny jerk of the hips. Oh, she's definitely aware of him, even though she can't see what he's doing. He presses another kiss to her thigh and another and another until he arrives at her bush, letting the springy hair tickle his nose as he inhales the heavy, heady scent of her, salty like the wind off the ocean by his home, with an astringent edge of sweat to it.

"Beautiful," he breathes.

"What?" Brienne asks from above, and though he isn't looking at her face there's that note in her voice that tells him she's ready to argue the point.

"The- you- your smell," he says. "It's unique."

"Oh," she says, clearly lost for words.

It's just as well because Jaime's not in the mood for any sort of conversation right now. He leans in again, parting her nether lips with two fingers, the paths they travel already slick with her juices, and there it is, the heart of her womanhood, red and flushed, waiting there for him to taste. He presses in and licks, a long swipe upwards, and is rewarded with a noise from above.

Then: "That tickles!" Brienne exclaims.

"Sorry," Jaime says, and with the next lick he takes care to try to keep his beard from scraping against her most sensitive parts. He licks in long, broad strokes, again and again, but always avoiding the little bud in the centre, until Brienne is squirming, her hips moving in little jerks, point and counterpoint to the strokes of his tongue. She tastes like her scent, but stronger, so much gorgeously stronger.

He lets his fingers slip down and into her, and a sudden upward thrust has Brienne crying out, has her _wailing_ a noise that might or might not have Jaime's name lost in it somewhere.

She's hard now, almost as hard as he is, the little bud unfurling from beneath its hood, as she moves with him, and he licks with his tongue and thrusts with his fingers and knows that she's almost on the precipice.

He closes his mouth over the heart of her and _sucks_ , drinking her in. Brienne's hips arch up as her powerful thighs clamp around his head, and her cunt closes like a vise around his fingers. Jaime can't breathe, but right here and now it's easy to think that breathing is vastly overrated. If kissing her mouth had been almost worth dying for, then this…

She goes rigid, as taut as a bow string, and a long cry escapes her, so loud that it might penetrate even the thick stone walls of this ancient castle. The moment goes on and on, and on and on, and then she slumps back down onto the mattress, still gasping out her pleasure, and Jaime sits up, drawing a deep breath into his protesting lungs.

He stays like that only long enough to sprawl out on top of her.

"Please, oh, please, I want you so much," he says into her ear, raining kisses on her cheek, her nose, her chin, wherever he can reach, as the evidence of his desire for her lies long and hard between them.

In answer, Brienne pulls her legs up and around him, drawing him closer. She's so wet that it only takes a moment for him to reach down and guide his cock into her slick depths. Then one deep thrust and another and another and the world goes white as he spends himself inside her, letting out a long cry of his own to match the one that she just made.

Jaime collapses onto Brienne and they lie there together, not speaking, breathing hard, pulses racing. He doesn't have to worry about their being found like this together, or of squashing her beneath his weight, doesn't want to move apart from her until he must, so he lies there and drifts for a while, pressing lazy kisses into her neck until at last he softens inside her and the moment can no longer be prolonged.

He rolls off her and reaches down beside the bed for his shirt. Turning back to her, he hands it to her.

"To prevent wet spots," he explains when she raises her eyebrows in question.

It takes her a second to work out what he means, but when she does she doesn't flush in embarrassment, like the maiden she no longer is. Instead, she pulls the pillow out from beneath her, tosses it back against the bedhead, and pushes the shirt down between her thighs.

"Thank you," Brienne says. It's her usual gruff sort of tone, but when she turns to look at him the light in her eyes is soft, so soft. Soft like Jaime has never seen her before. "Next time," she says, and lets her eyes roam down his body, unashamedly drinking in the sight of him, "maybe I could try some of those sorts of kisses on you."

Jaime smiles, a slightly rueful smile. "I'd invite you to try them now, but I'm not fifteen any more. This old man requires some recovery time." On impulse, he reaches down for her hand and draws it to his lips to kiss it. It's a courtly gesture, or would be, if he kissed the back of her hand. He doesn't. He plants a long, wet kiss in the palm of her hand, and then closes her fingers over it. "A promise for next time," he says.

"You seemed to do quite well this time—for an old man—I thought," says Brienne, and before Jaime realises what she's doing, she's reached down between them to capture his right arm. She draws his stump up to her lips and kisses it, letting her lips linger, just as he did to her hand a moment ago.

Jaime doesn't know how to react, what to say, so he waits until she slowly, gently lets go of his arm, and then he meets her eyes and holds her gaze.

He's the one to look away.

"I don't know about you, but I'm still fucking freezing," he says, trying for and almost achieving something like his normal voice as he busies himself pulling the bed furs up from the foot of the bed where they've ended up tangled at their feet. "Come and bed down with me under the covers, wench, and share my warmth."

"Let you share my warmth, you mean," Brienne almost—but not quite—grumbles. But she comes easily into his arms, and they snuggle down under the furs together.

It's the simplest thing in the world, then, for his mouth to find hers, or hers to find his. It doesn't matter which it is. Maybe it's both at once. It's a slow, gentle loving kiss, regardless of who starts it.

Maybe soon they'll find the words to go with it. But for tonight, the kiss is enough.


End file.
